Sorcery's Shadow (The Road to Hogwarts)
by longliv98
Summary: This is the story of a young Godric Gryffindor, Salazar Slytherin, Helga Hufflepuff and Rowena Ravenclaw. They live in a kingdom where the use of magic is outlawed, where witches and wizards and killed. Slowly, they find their way to one another.


Sweat dripped like hot wax off the base of a melting candle, traveling down the curve of his temple and catching in the tangles of his long, black lashes. It dangled on the edges of his short wood-brown hair, sticking it to his forehead and the back of his neck.

He rolled back, dodging his opponent as the other man thrust a heavy-looking, cold-steel sword in his direction. The rough gravel cut into his skin, scraping and even drawing a small drop of crimson blood. He wiped it away with his mud-speckled hand, and returned to fighting stance.

Once again, the other one charged. He was bigger—much bigger—and had eyes made of rolling thunder.

Godric didn't blink. He simply lifted his sword, and prepared.

He ducked out of the way, throwing the larger man off balance enough to bring up his heel and slam it into the back of the other's man knee. He wavered heavily but, to his credit, refrained from collapsing.

Godric felt a liquid smile swim across his blood-red features. He loved this part.

With a howl to put His Majesty's greatest hound to shame, the brute whipped around, weapon whipping in the air as if he could actually cut the atmosphere to ribbons. And in a second, Godric had struck him in the chest with the hilt of his own sword, twisted his arm behind his back and thrown him to the dirt.

He aimed his sword at the warrior's heart and said, "Good job."

Manus, the person Godric had just been fighting, rejected Godric's offer to help him up. He grumbled something unintelligible and, head hanging like loose holly, returned to the stiffly straight line of soldiers.

The Captain of the Guard straightened his sleeves, for they appeared to have ruffled some during the fight. He brushed scraped hands along his shirt, wiping off dust-like red-brown dirt. Incidentally, the fabric was, in color, a near identical match, so it didn't appear to make much of a difference.

He stepped forward, leaning on his sword as he spoke to his men. "Can anyone tell me what Manus did wrong?" he asked.

No one said a word. One guard coughed loudly, a broken spurt of air, and Godric smiled at him. "Ah, Jameson!" he said excitedly, clapping hands together and gesturing for the shorter, rounder boy to come forward. "You've appeared to have volunteered yourself; what an honor it is, I'm sure."

Jameson shook his head quickly, loose red hair whipping about.

"Oh, come on," Godric persuaded, but when Jameson shook his head once more, he let the matter drop. "Alright," he sighed, "I'll have to simply tell you all myself. Honestly, where would you be without my guidance?"

"Probably having a meal!" one of the mean in the back called, and the whole lot snickered, even Godric.

"But," said Godric innocently, "if you one of you wishes to come up and fight me now, you may have a hearty meal; you can swallow the dust as I kick it in your face."

"Big talk," drawled a voice from behind Godric, "for a man who wasn't properly trained until well into manhood."

The voice was low, and full of gravel and sharp edges. It had always resembled more of hiss than a human vocal to Godric. He knew that voice better than his own—and he knew his own quite well.

"Salazar!" he called happily, spinning on his heel and appraising the other boy with a face-splitting grin. "Why have you chosen to curse us with your foul mug this time, old friend?"

Salazar smiled mockingly, taking the joke in stride. He, and anyone who could possibly have heard, would've known it was a joke as well. Salazar Slytherin was many things (Godric could think of many choice words) but ugly was not one of them.

His skin was the color of fresh milk, chalky and pale in a way that never seemed to get any darker, or even to burn—not even after the two of them stayed out all day in the blistering sunshine, swinging swords and throwing punches. Godric always looked like a proper lobster come dawn—but Salazar was almost never unruffled.

His hair, a pale golden-blonde, was pulled back from his face, tied with a strip of deep green fabric, the same material as his billowing cloak. His eyes, for not the first time, were ringed with black. If it wasn't for the piercingly ice-blue spears of his irises, Godric thought he may be confused for a skeleton.

His fingers traced the top of his sword, which poked out unevenly from the edge of his cloak. He hardly ever went anywhere without it—family heirloom, and all that.

"Well," Salazar said, "His Oh-So-Graciously-Wonderful Majesty has invited me over for tea. I think he's going to try and convince me to seize a position in his council again."

Godric turned back to his men briefly and, with a jerk of his chin, they knew they'd been dismissed.

"What do you think you'll say, if he does ask?"

"How many ways can one say 'no,' Godric?"

They were only a few paces from Queen Mariana's old garden, which was kept in immaculate condition, to honor her memory. Whenever Salazar came to visit the castle, he was their more often than he visited his own chambers. Without thinking about it, it seemed, he was already headed over there now, expecting Godric to follow. He did.

"Are you well?" asked Godric politely, his hands swinging as the two of them walked side-by-side through freshly-sprouting roses. "How is your family?"

"Everything's fine," grunted Salazar. "Nothing has changed, and nothing ever will."

"Something has changed," insisted Godric, only partly joking, "I'm willing to stake three-months silver on it that your hair has grown. And I've never seen that cloak before. It's a nice cloak, Salazar."

The other boy rolled his crystal eyes, but the smallest of smiles danced on his blood-red mouth. When Salazar smiled, he was all teeth; it was as if he needed to expose as much of them as he could. It did nothing for his sharp features and intimidating demeanor; maybe that's why he did it.

"I had it specially made," he confessed. "I didn't have anything in this color, you see."

Godric nodded as if he did.

In truth, he had never had much money. He worked day-in and day-out through all of his childhood and the majority of his youth; he came to the castle, became a guard, only because Salazar's father, a respected lord, had recommended him. From there, he'd had to work until his eyes nearly bled from exhaustion—but he'd managed to nab Captain, and at only nineteen, this was very impressive indeed.

For Godric, life had been fighting and worrying about when the next meal would come. For Salazar, it had been about picking out the right clothes, meeting the right women, going to the right parties: everything leading up to him taking over his father's position in the kingdom.

"Are you coming to the dance, Godric?" asked Salazar. Only then did Godric notice he had been staring into empty air, eyes tracking a bee as it buzzed along.

Godric shook his head, catching himself up mentally. "No," he said. Then, "I mean, yes, probably. I will be standing near the thrones, silently watching." He glanced around as if someone would jump from the thorn bushes and proclaim they'd be listening all along. "I tell you this in confidence: it may possibly be the most boring thing I've ever had to endure."

Salazar's pale eyebrows shot up on his wrinkling forehead. "And you've had to endure my father's annual auction," he said.

Godric nodded animatedly. "It's that bad, I'm afraid."

Salazar laughed, the sound caught somewhere between the bark of a dog and the whistle of the wind through a crack in a glass window. "Then I am truly, truly sorry for you, my friend."

On paper, Godric had been telling the utmost truth. It was painfully boring, standing still, unable to shift his weight, hardly able to breathe in the tight guards' uniform. But there were perks—and sometimes he felt they outweighed the bad.

One of the best things about it was, for instance, standing so close to Princess Rowena.

Mentally scolding himself for the thought, he straightened and asked, "And you, Salazar? Will you be attending?"

"Unfortunately so," he sighed. "Perhaps I'll sneak you one of those frightfully tough rock-cakes His Majesty insists upon serving at every gathering."

"Your generosity is unparalleled," said Godric dryly.

The church bell that hung over the highest tower of the castle chimed, ringing through the air and pounding on the outer layer of Godric's skull.

He ground his teeth and spat, "When will they have that incessantly irritating bell ripped from its hinges so the tired souls in this land will finally know some peace?"

Normally, Salazar would have laughed at this, but now his brow wrinkled ever so slightly and Godric swore he saw the glisten of perspiration on the outer corners of his mouth.

"I must be off," he said swiftly, "I hope I am not too late for tea . . . I will be seeing you, Godric. Stay well."

He was gone in a puff of green and a streak of white, and only silence followed.

Godric, not having anything better to do, as he'd dismissed his men for the day, decided to visit the castle's library. He hadn't been in ages; and, if he was being honest, it was one of Rowena's favorite places in the whole of the world.

He would never speak to her; he simply could not cross that line.

But there was no crime in watching her read. Her eyes lit up like crackling wood, her fingers moved across the pages with the swiftness of his finest horse. Watching her read was something like magic—and not the evil, horrendously dangerous magic His Majesty was always raving about. Watching her was warmth and excitement and reminded him of everything he did not feel, not here, not ever.

With that thought, he headed inside, his arms swinging merrily at his sides.


End file.
